Tom Clancy - Locked On

He wondered where Sandy was right now, but he would not call. He knew she would be under surveillance, and he also knew Ding would be taking care of her.

Right now, he needed to concentrate on his plan.

John knew that, as soon as the FBI missed him up in Emmitsburg, there would be a BOLO, a “Be on the lookout” order, broadcast among law enforcement agencies of the area, ensuring that everyone from traffic cops to organized-crime detectives would have his picture and his description and an order to pick him up if they saw him. In addition to this, Clark had no doubt the FBI was using its huge resources to hunt him down.

He felt somewhat secure right now, in this place, with this semi-disguise and this low-profile action, but he knew he wouldn’t last long before he was spotted.

Though he sat with others in the pharmacy, he wasn’t getting a prescription filled himself. Instead he was watching the mirrors high at the back of the store, looking for anyone following him.

For ten minutes he watched and waited.

But he saw nothing.

Next he bought a throwaway phone at the pharmacy and wandered the store while he took it out of its packaging and turned it on. He then thumbed a two-line text message to Domingo Chavez. He had no way of knowing if Ding was under surveillance himself, or exactly how far this had all spread, so he’d avoided Ding and The Campus since finding out the FBI was looking for him the previous evening. But he and Chavez had established codes between the two of them, should a situation arise where one could not be certain the other was clean.

A group of loud and rough-looking African-American teenagers entered Clark’s aisle and immediately went silent. They gave him a long look, sizing him up like predators sizing up prey. Clark had been fumbling with his new phone, but he stopped what he was doing, stared back at the six youths just to let them know he was aware of their presence and their interest in him. This was more than enough to get the young toughs to move on to easier pickings, and John focused again on his work.

John received a text message. 9 p.m. BWI OK?

John nodded at the phone, then tapped back. OK.

Three minutes later he walked north on Stricker Street, removing the battery from the phone as he did so. He tossed his empty coffee cup, the phone, and the battery, in a drain culvert, and continued walking.

* * *

Seconds before nine o’clock that evening, Domingo Chavez stood on the dark ramp in front of Maryland Charter Aviation Services. A cold rain fell on him, wetting the brim of his ball cap and causing a steady drip in front of his eyes. His windbreaker shielded him from the wet, but not the cold.

Fifty yards off his left shoulder, the Hendley Associates Gulfstream G550 sat parked and ready, though at present it had filed no flight plan. Captain Reid and First Officer Hicks sat in the cockpit, and Adara Sherman readied the cabin, though they had no idea where they might be heading.

Ding looked at his Luminox watch. The tritium gas — filled tubes glowed in the dark here, just outside the residual lighting emitted by the aircraft fifty yards away.

Nine o’clock on the nose.

Just then a figure appeared out of the darkness. Clark wore a black hooded coat and carried no luggage at all. He looked like he could be an airport ground employee.

“Ding,” he said with a curt nod.

“How you holding up, John?”

“I’m okay.”

“Long day?”

“Nothing I haven’t been through a hundred times before. Doesn’t usually happen in my own country, though.”

“This is fucking bullshit.”

“No argument here. Any news?”

Chavez shrugged. “Just a little. The White House is using you to get to Ryan. No idea if they know about The Campus or that you have been working at Hendley Associates since retirement from the Agency. The indictment has been sealed, and no one is talking. If the existence of The Campus is known, or suspected, Kealty’s people are tight-lipped about it. They are going about this like it’s some cold-case file that just got a shake, and your name fell out.”

“How ’bout the family?”

“Sandy is fine. We are all fine. I’ll watch out for them, and if someone comes for me, the Ryans will take over. Everyone sends their love and support.”

Clark nodded, sighed out a burst of steam that shone in lights from the auxiliary power unit.

Ding motioned to the Gulfstream. “And Hendley sent this. He wants you to go into hiding.”

“I’m not going into higoing inding.”

Chavez nodded thoughtfully. “You’re going to need some help, then.”

“No, Ding. I need to do this alone. I want you with The Campus. There is too much going on right now. I’ll figure out who is behind this on my own.”

“I understand you want to keep the shop insulated, but let me come with you. Cathy Ryan will make sure Sandy is okay while we’re gone. We make a hell of a team, and you are going to need me to watch your back.”

Clark shook his head. “Appreciate it, but The Campus needs you more than I do. The OPTEMPO is too high for both of us to be gone. I’ll check in on back channels if I need a hand.”

Chavez didn’t like it. He wanted to be there for his friend. But he said, “Roger, John. The 550 will take you wherever you want to go.”

“You have a clean passport on board for me?”

Now Ding smiled. “I do. Multiples. But I have something else on board in case you need to make a serious covert penetration, to enter an area without leaving any paper trail whatsoever.”

Clark understood. “Does Captain Reid know about that?”

“She does, and she will comply. Miss Sherman will get you set up.”

“Guess I’d better get going, then.”

“Good luck, John. I don’t want you to forget. Anytime. Anyplace. You say the word and I appear on your shoulder. You got that?”

“I got it, and I appreciate it.” The men shook hands, and then they embraced. Seconds later, John Clark headed to the Gulfstream while Domingo Chavez watched him walk off in the rain.

The Hendley Associates Gulfstream flew to Bangor, Maine. This was not its final destination, but it served as a temporary staging area, a place to refuel and to wait until the next afternoon, when they would leave the country for Europe. John Clark did not leave the aircraft, though the crew did check into a local hotel to spend the balance of the evening and the next morning.

Their original flight plan showed them heading to Geneva, but they would amend that in flight. The departure customs check at Bangor was a breeze, even though Clark’s face had been on the news for the past twenty-four hours. His false mustache and toupee along with his thick-lens costume eyeglasses made him unrecognizable as the man on television.

At five p.m. on Wednesday, the G550 took off on runway 33, banked to the northeast, and began the long flight over the Atlantic.

Clark had spent the day researching his target on a laptop on board the plane. He checked maps, train timetables, weather, yellow pages, white pages, and a never-ending list of German federal, state, and municipal government employee databases. He was looking for a man, a man who might very well be dead, but a man who would be crucial in helping him uncover information about those targeting him.

The sixty-four-year-old former Navy SEAL slept a few hours while in flight, until his eyes opened to the sight of the short blond hair and gentle smile of Adara Sherman looking over him.

“Mr. Clark? It’s time, sir.”

He sat up and looked out the window, saw nothing but clouds below them and a moon above.

“What’s the weather like?”

“Cloud cover above eight thousand feet. Temperature in the thirties on the deck.”